


Coffee and Cigarettes

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Series: Coffee and Cigarettes [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:29:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred made a promise to himself that he would never surrender to anyone, never relinquish his control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee and Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted to LJ September 16, 2010. 
> 
> The original prompt was for Alfred to ask Arthur if he could bottom. The fill ended up being more introspective than sexy.

“Alfred, are you even paying attention?”  
  
Alfred snapped his head up, eyes away from the doodles he’d shamelessly and blatantly been doodling on the front of the world meeting notes. Ludwig or Yao or _someone_ had just finished talking about something, but Alfred had long since blocked them out, ignored them. The entire thing was boring, anyway.  
  
“No,” he said, because there was no point in lying if he’d been caught red-handed.  
  
Arthur’s face huffed up in that way that it always did when he was about ready to explode, to shout obscenities at Alfred. Alfred was used to this. He knew he’d get a scolding after the meeting was over, and then Alfred would just kiss him and Arthur would forget all about it as Alfred took him to bed and had his wicked way with him. Arthur was easy to read like that, and, despite his protests, incredibly easy to distract. Especially when said distraction was sex.  
  
They’d come a long way, really.  
  
But now was not the time to be musing, because apparently Alfred had drifted off, complete with glazed over eyes, while Arthur was shouting instructions at him. And now that it was clear he hadn’t heard a single word, Arthur took it upon himself to slap at Alfred’s head with the bundle of papers he held in his hand, shouting things like _egotistical little bastard—!_  
  
Well, whatever. Alfred deflected the blows, and promised to pay more attention.  
  
So naturally when attention was off him, he went back to doodling. He glanced up every now and then to stare at Arthur, who looked incredibly pissy and unattractive today. But that was just as well, because Alfred liked him anyway, somewhat inexplicably.  
  
Or perhaps not so inexplicably. They’d come a long way, from kin to enemies to _I couldn’t care less what he does so shut up and stop talking about him_ to allies to friends to—  
  
Perhaps the “shut up and stop talking about him”-ness lasted a bit longer than the friendship and the allied forces had. But it was a progression that Alfred thought of often. Especially now that he was in a position that left him rather vulnerable to Arthur, something he’d promised to himself he’d never do. And lately he’d had thoughts of letting things drift, perhaps let himself become closer, more open—vulnerable.  
  
Fifty years ago, he never would have let himself think that way. Fifty years ago, he wouldn’t think he’d be in a relationship with Arthur, or that he’d be fantasying about letting go of all his control and letting Arthur have his wicked way with him.  
  
He hadn’t thought of it often, back then—hadn’t allowed himself to think it. He’d assumed it would pass, believed that the fleeting images he remembered, just before he awoke fully, were simple tricks his sleepy mind played on him. But when he first thought about it, fleetingly and without paying attention to it, he dominated Arthur completely. In his fantasies, he pushed Arthur down, dragged himself on top of him—kept him there, held him as he pounded into him and made Arthur scream his name. Completely and utterly dominant, completely in control—no matter how unrealistic his vision might have been, at times, it was always the same: never let anyone make him feel, even for a moment, that he was not the one in control.  
  
When it started, it’d been completely physical at first. Their past emotional baggage was enough reason for Alfred to completely avoid inciting any kind of emotional memories, or even hint at something in the past. It was all behind them, even if Arthur’s yearly drunken ramblings in July were anything but “letting it go”. In the end, it was easier just to let things stand, and Alfred, above all else, told himself there was no emotional attachment to Arthur, and that the fleeting thoughts he had about him, bent over, spread out, or panting out his name, was purely on the physical, carnal belief that Arthur would look hot begging for him. And above all else, he hadn’t trusted himself, and hadn’t trusted Arthur—everything that was left lurking, left unsaid behind eyes and smiles and scathing criticisms of his latest plans. Alfred knew, immediately, that Arthur was far from the kind of person he would ever want to be with, even disregarding their mutual pasts. And, most of all, he did not want Arthur to have control over him, ever again, in any kind of way.  
  
But in the corners of his mind (perhaps, the corners of his heart) he was willing to admit that he did find Arthur attractive—occasionally, provided it was the right kind of light, Arthur was wearing the right kind of clothes, and most importantly of all he wasn’t saying shit that put Alfred and his masterful plans down. He was attractive, kind of, and that was the end of it. Lust happened, and it happened a lot to Alfred—who was he to deny that the others like him had their attractive perks about them? His brother was a boob man, and Alfred, well, he just liked a pretty face, and provided Arthur tilted his head just right, he had a very pretty face. It was the eyebrows, really, that made it difficult at times—but sometimes those were “charming”, at least. Arthur had a nice cut to his jaw, smooth features with just the right cut of roughness, hinting at a strength he did not flaunt or display. But Alfred didn’t have to admit to anything else beyond feeling attracted—lust happened every day, and it was merely an appreciation of another’s body, and nothing to do with respect, affection, and least of all love.  
  
The meeting ended and the nations shuffled their papers. Someone went about waking Herakles up—why didn’t he get shit for not paying attention during meetings?—and someone else was tasked with making sure Francis kept his pants on. The room was emptying out quickly, as it always did, which always led Alfred to believe that everyone hated these meetings but they apparently were more masochistic than he was and forced themselves to pay attention.  
  
Arthur was standing behind his shoulder now, as if waiting for him. He could feel him there, just as he could always feel Arthur when he was nearby. The other nation touched his shoulder, leaned down so they were eye-to-eye, and he was frowning.  
  
“Done doodling, I do so hope,” he said, in that wonderful accent of his and Alfred absorbed the sound.  
  
He swiveled in his chair and grinned up at Arthur. “Yep!”  
  
The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched, but he did not dare smile as Alfred stretched out his legs, let his arms hang down and then lifted them above his head as he stretched, long and languid. He could feel Arthur’s eyes on him, and he prolonged the stretch, let his back curl and a small, contented sigh escape his parted lips before he stood up, grinning and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  
  
Arthur’s face was flushed, and he looked away when their eyes locked.  
  
“Like what you see?” Alfred asked, grinning cheekily.  
  
Arthur made a soft sound in the back of his throat, adjusted his tie, and seized his briefcase. “Shut the fuck up and come here.”  
  
He grabbed Alfred by his tie and started dragging. Alfred laughed, let himself be dragged, but eventually reclaimed his tie. He slung an arm over Arthur’s shoulder and stayed like that until they reached the exit of the building and Arthur elbowed him in the side as he hailed a taxi.  
  
“Going back to my place?” Alfred asked, still grinning, as they climbed into the taxi together.  
  
“Yes,” Arthur said, no hesitation, and there was really no reason to argue. Alfred’s grin only widened and they passed the taxi ride in silence. When they pulled up to Alfred’s home, Alfred threw some bills to the driver, told him to keep the change, and the two men in suits walked up, calmly, to Alfred’s home.  
  
Once the door shut behind them, however, the briefcases fell to the ground, and their arms were around one another, mouths pressed together as if they hadn’t seen one another in years. Alfred wasn’t sure who initiated the contact, didn’t care, as he pressed down on Arthur and Arthur responded, dragging Alfred close as Arthur leaned up against the wall for support.  
  
And, as always, Alfred dragged Arthur upstairs, losing clothing along the way. As always, Alfred pressed Arthur down, dominated him, kissed him. Their bodies came together, as they always did, as if they were made to fit together—and such a horribly sappy observation was what made long nights without Arthur seem easier, when all Alfred had were images and his hand for company.  
  
But somehow, even though the reality reflected, somewhat, the fantasies Alfred used to have, it was different. When the fantasies first started, Alfred had always been the one in control—  
  
It came back to an issue of control. Alfred hadn’t wanted to feel as if he didn’t have control, over himself, over others—losing control of himself had led to worse things in his past. And as no one—nation or human—could control and hold his lands so, too, could no one hold him down, control him and make him surrender. Alfred—the United States—did not surrender, did not relinquish control of himself, especially to someone like Arthur. Not to someone who’d done so before, and had refused to let go until it was pried from his rain-drenched hands.  
  
Alfred wasn’t sure, then, why the fantasies changed when they did. Alfred went years denying his attraction to Arthur, buried it beneath his customary smile and bravado. It was after the great wars, after fighting together for the first time, that Alfred quietly admitted to himself that he found Arthur attractive—and that was when the fantasies began. He would wake up in the morning, strained against his pants, with images of Arthur moaning, wanton, calling and reaching for Alfred as Alfred dominated him, forced him into submission, had him crying out for surrender. He had the control, and Arthur was his to control. In these fantasies, Arthur would not often act like himself, and Alfred liked to pretend he could be anyone. But it was always Arthur who appeared—when Alfred’s hand stroked himself, leaning against the wall of the shower, or when he woke in the morning after a dream that refused to stay.  
  
He should have been utterly in control at all times, but the wars changed things. Their governments worked closely together, and Arthur was no longer a fleeting thought as he recalled his past, nor was he a neutral party, or someone across the Atlantic. He was right _there_ , frowning and lecturing and occasionally smiling, perhaps, rarer still, laughing. Friendly meetings passed in waves—reassurances, collaborations, visits to bars, slaps on the back—  
  
When they had fought together, in the world wars, they were equals—regardless of policy, regardless of attitudes within their separate nations. Pressed back to back, sweat dripping into their eyes, the taste of salt and grit on their tongues. It changed things, then. Equal. In that way, so slowly, Alfred found himself submitting to Arthur.  
  
So Alfred _did_ understand why the fantasies changed—because things had changed. They were equal, strong, relying on one another. Whether it be fighting the axis powers, or, years later, scraped out on a desert, tasting the sun-bleached wasteland and understanding that there were worst things than sunburns. Alfred knew he couldn’t survive without relying on others, without trusting others. And there was no one he trusted to fight alongside more than Arthur, who watched his back, poised on a sand dune, looking for snipers through the binoculars, not moving until long after the sun had gone down and the back of his neck was burnt fiery red. There was no one he trusted more, no one who would fight with him and fight for him, who would remember to somehow bake him a cake in the middle of operations and then give him the kick to the face as a present when Alfred insulted the cake’s appearance and taste.  
  
If anyone asked them, there was nothing—denial, scoffing, perhaps even raucous laughter at such an absurd idea. Matthew had his own ideas, Francis had lewd theories. But the world wars changed things, and the passage of time ushered it further. The turn of the century opened Alfred’s eyes to that, and he understood, without a doubt, that Arthur was one of the people—not nations, but people—closest to him, and to whom he had placed his trust.  
  
The fantasies happened more frequently—perhaps once a week instead of every once in a while, sometimes as much as twice a week. And this trust Alfred had in Arthur was reflected in those fantasies. No longer did Alfred shove Arthur down and have his way with him, regardless of what the fantasy Arthur wanted or said. It was Arthur who initiated the pursuit, pining Alfred to a wall and dominating in the foreplay—kissing him in just the right ways, stroking him the ways that Alfred liked. He would almost tease him, smile at him that way that he so rarely did, only in rare moments of vulnerability. But here it did not seem like vulnerability, but confidence, and it sent Alfred into an aroused frenzy. He would take over, in the end—and that was how all his fantasies ended, with Arthur controlling up until the moment Alfred eventually grabbed back, yanked him around, and recaptured the upper hand.  
  
In reality, their relationship remained the same. Arthur wasn’t ever afraid to call Alfred out on his shit, and Alfred was always there to regain the upper hand as best he could, and the two of them fought each other. It seemed as if they had reached a plateau, where there was so much left unsaid but nothing ever was said. And it was with one blinding realization over a particular argument (over whether Alfred’s version of the television show Big Brother was better than Arthur’s) that Alfred realized that he _wanted_ Arthur, not just for physical reasons but because Arthur drove him crazy and he couldn’t imagine loving anyone else.  
  
And Alfred had so much he could say, and never did. He slammed his way home, shoved himself up against the wall and the fantasies overpowered him. Instead of letting Arthur control him for a moment only to seize the upper hand, in these fantasies now it was Arthur who approached him, who controlled him. In these fantasies, Alfred and Arthur did not dance around each other, did not seem to get closer only to run away—here, it seemed as if Arthur made a move and stuck with it, instead of backing away, instead of denying and pretending there was nothing. He pushed Alfred onto the bed as though he knew exactly what he wanted and there was nothing that would stop him. In these fantasies, Arthur’s selfish honesty made Alfred’s heart almost stop.  
  
Alfred just wanted the confrontation, wanted the resolution to something that was definitely between them but not said. He did not want Arthur to take a step towards him, flow to him as if he might actually do it for once, only to float away from him, to run away.  
  
He wanted Arthur, and he wanted Arthur to take what he _wanted_. So long as what he wanted was Alfred in turn. He didn’t want to have to ask Arthur, he wanted Arthur to _take_. He wanted to trust himself to Arthur, let Arthur have him and not abuse that trust, abuse the power that Alfred would place with him. It was hard, to always be in control, and for once he wanted to be able to submit, wanted to be able to have someone do what they pleased with him, and then still love him in the morning—still want and need him. He wanted to believe that it would be okay, to let his guard down—he wanted to know it would be okay, if it was Arthur.  
  
One day, it happened.  
  
There was no alcohol involved. There was nothing dramatic. There were no meaningful looks, no tearful confessions. There was just Arthur and there was just Alfred.  
  
Arthur had missed his flight, and Alfred had let him stay the night. They’d stayed in Alfred’s home, and Arthur settled himself for a night on the couch, flipping the television on and remarking upon American television commercials that always seemed so foreign to him.  
  
Alfred had stood in the doorway, watched Arthur until Arthur had felt the gaze on him and turned to look at him over his shoulder, the glow from the television backlighting him in a way that, had it been a movie, would have been horribly dramatic. The way it was lighting Arthur, though, only made him look kind of green and his face gaunt and shallow.  
  
Alfred, coffee cup in hand, had lifted it to his mouth to drink and around the lip of it had said the most unromantic and completely not dramatic confession ever: “Ya know, if we slept together that’d be totally cool with me.”  
  
Easy to write off as a joke, but he was deadly serious. He’d thought, at the time—why had it taken him so long to just say it, and since when did he keep things to himself?  
  
And Arthur had not looked shocked, had not burst into tears or laughed or even smiled. In fact, he’d remained completely stone-faced as he turned back to the television and flipped the television off. He stood up, threw the blanket behind him, and took the mug from his hand when he approached him, finally reached him, looked him eye-to-eye in perfect understanding of what Alfred said and did not say, still.  
  
“Okay,” was all he’d said before he’d kissed Alfred.  
  
But despite this resolution, it was not Arthur who shoved Alfred to the wall, but rather it was Alfred who had led Arthur upstairs, stripped him of his clothing, and slept with him until they’d both fallen asleep exhausted.  
  
As time went on, nothing really changed between them, except that in addition to bitching to each other and fighting along each other, there were kisses of good luck, and cupping each other’s cheeks after a long absence neither wanted to admit bothered them. They were together, in a manner of words, but things were still left unsaid. But every world meeting after that, Arthur stayed with Alfred—in fact, sometimes Arthur stayed with Alfred when there wasn’t a world meeting. Alfred would stay with Arthur, too, when he was in England.  
  
Later, Alfred began to understand why it was that Arthur never took control, always let Alfred set the pace, let Alfred strip him, kiss him, and have him. Arthur surrendered to him, but not without a fight—not without criticizing Alfred’s every move, not without tugging on his hair when it looked too messy, and then there’d be that one moment when Arthur would give him a quiet smile just before he reached his climax, head tilting back or to the side or forward as he breathed out Alfred’s name in a way that was far too intimate.  
  
He understood why it was always Arthur. Because he, too, understood the control issue. He, too, understood the emotional baggage they did not acknowledge, understood Alfred’s need for control and to have control of himself—to not surrender or submit to anyone, especially Arthur.  
  
What Arthur did not understand, and what Alfred never explained, was that Arthur would be the only one to whom Alfred would submit. Arthur believed that Alfred would run away, would push Arthur away. What he failed to realize was that Alfred was waiting for him, wanting him, patient as he could be.  
  
“Your head is in the clouds today, lad,” Arthur said, and his words snapped Alfred from his thoughts. He blinked down at Arthur, lying sprawled out on the bed, tie undone and hanging around his neck, hair in his eyes.  
  
“I guess so,” he said.  
  
Arthur sighed, pushed himself up into a seated position, fingers carding through Alfred’s hair affectionately. “Anything on your mind? Policy and whatnot?”  
  
“Naw,” Alfred said, closing his eyes and just focusing on the feel of Arthur’s fingers in his hair.  
  
If he never said anything, how was Arthur to know? If Arthur never said anything, how was Alfred to resolve it?  
  
But hadn’t that been the issue in the first place? Hadn’t it taken a cup of coffee, depression medication commercials, and a ratty old blanket for Alfred to finally say _enough, I want you_?  
  
“Then what is it?” Arthur asked, brow furrowing in confusion.  
  
Alfred tilted his head, watched Arthur’s features. He’d already memorized them, already knew how to map his fingers across his face and know the direct path to every touch that would send Arthur’s heart pounding. He could find Arthur in the dark, find his mouth, his lips, his tongue—he didn’t even have to blink to know how to make Arthur beg for mercy, to make Arthur completely his.  
  
And Alfred knew, in turn, that he had completely fallen—and he would relinquish all his control, surrender completely with just the sound of his name on Arthur’s tongue. That was all it took, that was all it would ever take.  
  
So as he leaned in to kiss Arthur yet again, he made no sound as he rolled over, pulling Arthur on top of him. Arthur pulled away from the kiss, stared at him, frowning.  
  
“Please,” he said, and choked, paused—he never said please, he always just took. But he did not want to take, not this time. He wanted to be the one taken—far away, far, far, far, until he was falling, falling completely and out of control. “Arthur, I—”  
  
He waited, patient, hoping that Arthur would understand. Arthur’s hands clutched at Alfred’s, and did not tremble, though it looked as if he might blow away, a skeleton of a leaf on the autumn breeze.  
  
“Arthur, I…”  
  
He rolled his hips, upward, pressed up against Arthur. His fingers worked at Arthur’s belt buckle, tugged and pulled. Dragged him closer—watched Arthur’s mouth part, his eyelids flutter. Watch understanding dawn.  
  
“Alfred—”  
  
And so much was in that simple word, that simple name. There was the slightest tremble, the quietest of hesitations before it seemed as if doors had been flung open, and Arthur clutched at him, peeling his clothing away and his skin burned with each one of Arthur’s touches, simple grazes of his fingertips. Arthur said no more, and no more needed to be said.  
  
“Is it okay?” Arthur asked, hushed, poised over him, hand dragging down Alfred’s heaving, bare chest.  
  
Alfred just nodded, mouth parted. “Please… Arthur.”  
  
Something shifted in Arthur’s eyes—something he so rarely wanted to say, so rarely wanted to show.  
  
“You’re the only one I…”  
  
“… I know, Alfred. I know,” Arthur breathed, stole away Alfred’s words. It was just as well, because Alfred wasn’t sure if he’d be able to say it— _you’re the only one I want, you’re the only one who can do this. Don’t break me, don’t hurt me._  
  
Instead of saying those words, Alfred grabbed at the headboard, arched his back as Arthur kissed down his chest, nuzzled at his flushed skin, hands clenching his hips, thumbs mapping out the jut of his hipbone before digging into the soft flesh there, pulling down his pants and his boxers and leaving him completely naked and at Arthur’s mercy.  
  
But there was no hesitation, no feelings of embarrassment or ambivalence or shame. He was Arthur’s, and there was no sacrifice to do so, to admit to being so. Arthur was his, and he was Arthur’s.  
  
Arthur’s hand splayed over his stomach as his kissing went further down, following the lines of his muscles.  
  
Hot breath wafted across his skin, and the hair on the back of Alfred’s neck stood up. Alfred clenched his eyes shut, but quickly decided it was not enough—he had to watch him, had to see only Arthur. He stared at him, and those burning green eyes stared back, flickering across his face for any sign of denial, of backing away and reclaiming his control. His hands clenched the headboard, though, refused to release, refused to pull away.  
  
There was a flurry of movement, of shared looks, of hesitation on Arthur’s part. He prepared him, spread him, pushed him closer and closer to the edge. Alfred was suffocating, feeling Arthur’s chest press against his as he pushed inside him, hot breath wafting still, brushing across his cheek, nose in his hair.  
  
Arthur made a small noise, a soft gasp, a moan that sounded like Alfred’s name and it sent a jolt of pleasure up Alfred’s spine that distracted him from the pain of being penetrated. He could not focus on the pain when it was Arthur over him and in him.  
  
He’d never felt this before, but it was okay if it was Arthur. Arthur, who peppered his face with kisses, stroked his hair, assured him and asked for reassurance in turn. His body remained stiff, waiting for Alfred’s consent. Arthur’s hands snaked down and wrapped around Alfred’s erection, stroking clumsily and tentatively before he worked up the proper rhythm, moving in time with his own thrusts.  
  
Alfred panted, made noises he never thought possible. His entire body was on fire.  
  
And Arthur smiled at him, a smile he’d never seen before, a smile he could not place. Arthur was happy—Alfred was happy. The hands that mapped his body, the thrusts that jarred his muscles and sent his words into incoherency—they were products of happiness, of the trust they shared. And that was something that Alfred never wanted to take away from Arthur, something he was more than happy to give.  
  
And that was all he could care about—because even if sex was good, it wasn’t the most important to Alfred. It didn’t matter at all when he could stare up at Arthur’s face, watched the way his jaw twitched as he bit his lip, watched the way the sweat collected on his brow, watched the way his eyes did not stray from Alfred, ever. It was good, it would always be good, as long as he was with someone he gave a damn about—and damn it all to high heaven, he loved Arthur. That busy-body, self-important, elitist, prudent little bastard had become the person most important to him, and he loved him for all his faults. He loved him, loved him more than he could say despite never wanting to, despite wanting to avoid him above all others.  
  
It seemed as if time stilled, but really it was not long at all, because Alfred could never last long, and he felt his body tense up around Arthur, and his body spill over onto Arthur’s hand around his erection. His breathing hitched, he gasped out Arthur’s name—and then the world blacked out for just a moment.  
  
When he came to, Arthur was staring at him, expression soft. Alfred blinked at him and Arthur leaned in, kissed his forehead.  
  
“Alfred…” he said, and with one final thrust he came with a quiet moan, holding himself taut for a moment before, slowly, the tension sank from his bones, and he fell to earth, fell to Alfred—and Alfred was there to catch him.  
  
And Arthur breathed out, kissed his available skin, tasted the sweat and the smell of sex on the air.  
  
“Oh,” Alfred said, softly, stroked Arthur’s hair. “Ha ha. Wow.”  
  
“Alfred,” Arthur said, equally as quiet, expression still soft when he pulled away to look down at him, brush the hair from his forehead.  
  
This was what love was, for them—completely unsaid, except in the smallest ways. Unstated, unsaid, but undeniably there. He could never not know, never not realize, even if he spent his entire life without words. Arthur stroked his face, the backs of his fingers curling along his feverish skin. There were no words of explanation for why the sudden change, for why, suddenly, Alfred threw down the last of his defenses, unsealed the final wall for Arthur to slip inside and be able to do to Alfred what Alfred has never let anyone else do. But there were no words needed, because the actions spoke loud and clear.  
  
Arthur kissed him, and Alfred felt himself sinking, knew that he would always surrender to Arthur, so long as he was there to meet him at the end of the road.  
  
They slept together, their limbs entwined in a way that would never be comfortable, but was the most satisfying feeling in the world, when waking up to someone right there, heartbeats in time and in tune.  
  
Alfred’s fingers will be cramped in the morning, from spending the entire night curled around Arthur’s—but that, too, is the most satisfying of all.


End file.
